The moss sinks softly to the ground
With each ginger step of this hellhound.
Midnight reveals a shaggy mane.
Conceals with love this hunting thing.
Down in Baskervillle. Hear it howl.
Three hours down, the hand bites one.
There's no sound, just the smell of firstborn son.
Ribs flex on blackened lungs that growl.
A local legends got a vendetta on this house.
Way out in Baskerville. Hear it howl.
I will cut its' chain tonight. I will drag with no respite
The firstborn into hedges, and directly into legend.
The devil runs in hide upon the midnight tides.
The devil runs in hide upon the moors tonight.
Down in Baskerville. Hear it howl.